


The Desert is a Cruel Mistress

by EdwinLiar



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Plot, Polyamorous Character, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 01:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdwinLiar/pseuds/EdwinLiar
Summary: Sivir, the Battle Mistress, is descended from a long bloodline of Shuriman royalty. After the resurrection of the once dead City of the Sun, and the rise of the God-Emperor Azir, new struggles for power and gain seem to have consumed the mercenary's once simple lifestyle. With no-one knowing her path, save herself, Sivir seeks an escape from her destiny through the simple pleasures in life she can control and enjoy; the hunt for gold, glory, and, the grandest of all prizes, women.





	The Desert is a Cruel Mistress

Naadir strode swiftly through the bustling marketplace, trying her hardest to ignore all the distractions surrounding her. In the City of the Sun, merchants and traders, who’d once led harsh lived as poor nomads in the vast expanse of them Shuriman desert, flocked in droves to the golden city.

The temptations of the flaring colours, from bolts of rare silk, or gorgeous dyes hauled for hundreds of miles across the sands, only accentuated by the twin glistening of both the sun and the Sun Disc, drew the eyes in every direction. The rapturous scents of enticing hot food, pungent foreign perfumes, and both medicinal and recreational candles and incense, was borderline overpowering. Most of all, the noise, that was the true blanket laid heavily across the senses. The chatter, shouting, hawking, and generally overloud gossiping of the tourists, traders, and citizens of the City of the Sun rang off every ancient tall building. Naadir lived for the noise most of all. She’d grown up to the north, across the Great Sai, in the port town of Nashramae. Half the silks on display today had been imported off the brine stained vessels that docked at that town. Gazing over a nearby bolt of silk, a deep sanguine crimson, a smile crept across her lips as she recognised instantly the seal of a silk merchant, one who had often teased and played with her when she was a younger girl. The smile quickly faded, when her eyes traced over a new addition to the seal. The axe headed symbol of Noxus, Stamp of the Noxian Trifarix. It snapped her mind back to why she was here.

Dragging her dark-brown eyes away once more, Naadir instinctively reached down with both hands. One checked the hilt of her regulation blade and whip were still present. The other grasped at the light leather coin pouch hidden beneath her skirt, bouncing against her thigh in a way that was annoying, but a necessity. As an ex-pickpocket, she understood where one should hide their valuables.

Moving onward, she cast her mind back to her hometown once more. She’d lived a lot of her young life as a scoundrel; cutting purses and burgling silverware offered more coin than working on her father’s fishing boat. Yet when Noxus had made its move on the northern coastal settlements, Bel’Zhun, the next town over, had folded like a dried palm leaf. It was only a matter of time before Nashramae kneeled before Noxus, and their warmasons stamped the mark of the empire with a Noxtoraan gate.

This was why she was now rushing through the streets, clad in traveller’s clothes, a heavy pack bouncing upon her back. She’d let herself get too distracted.

Panting, and panicking, she rounded round one of the ancient yellow sandstone buildings. With a resounding crash, Naadir fell bodily to the floor.

“Ah! So sorry,” Naadir stammered, wincing as she used her grazed hands to clamber to her feet, dusting them off before facing to turn the person she’d crashed into, “I was not looking where I was…”

The camel whose eyes she was gazing into brayed, revealing two rows of wide, yellowed teeth, and flaking her flushed face with spittle. Almost leaping back in surprise, olive cheeks turning as red as the silk she’d admired earlier, a heavy laughter rang out from above Naadir.

Glancing upwards, squinting a little and hand over here face due to the Sun Disc behind the broad silhouette, a wide and jovial man sat astride the beast.

“Girl, I do not think Labeela really understands Shuriman,” he let himself slide off of the beast, the camel seeming to now be idly chewing cud whilst the man, clad in rough cloths and airy blue trousers, turned to give Naadir a wider grin, “but I am sure she appreciates, from the depths of her brutish heart, your apology.”

His teeth were almost as yellow as “Labeela’s”, Naadir noted with a grimace.

“Well, I am sorry for crashing into your beast, sir,” the last word came with difficulty after a lifetime of mostly calling adults far ruder terms, “but I’ve got to run, I have an errand to perform for the guard.”

“Now hold on one moment,” the merchant raised a pudgy finger, a look of clear enjoyment on his wide face, “that wouldn’t happen to be a Nashramaen accent now, eh?”

The man spread his arms wide as Naadir nodded, an action she instantly regretted, as if to embrace a close friend, “You and I are practically family! I will help you in this mission, this quest. Now don’t start,” he waggled that same finger a little too close to Nadir’s face as she began to protest, “As my mother always said, pay your debts to those you murder with your camels sooner rather than later.”

“Fine,” Naadir retorted, a little too brusquely she realised, softening her voice to say, “It’s really nothing, I need to get to the tavern, the Crocodile’s Jaws.”

The man frowned a little, “Well we won’t be doing that without a first name basis, so let us do that, eh?” with a flourish, he performed an elaborate bow, revealing the sunbeaten bald spot in the centre of his mass of greying dark curls, “You may call me Tulio Gevannia, your guide to this wretched hole that dares call itself a tavern.”

“Naadir, Shuriman soldier, in training” she added that last part quickly, with a nother flush of her cheeks, but mirrored Tulio’s frown, “Is it really that bad? I’ve seen some rough dives in my time, but the way you describe it, it sounds like a Void infection.”

Tulio puffed his wide cheeks and began fussing Naadir onto the back of the camel. Both Naadir and Labeela were less than pleased with this arrangement. Clasping Naadir’s heavy pack to one of the many hooks adorning the beast of burden, Tulio finally responded.

“It’s a place where criminals go to trade their stolen goods, as well as an assassin’s nest,” when Naadir shrugged nonchalantly, Tulio added in, with a small smirk tugging at the corner’s of his mouth, “It is also the most active brothel in the city.”

Ah. Naadir did balk at that comment, unable to grasp words as she spluttered, the same way one is unable to grab Dryfin fish from an oasis’s pond. Tulio’s bellowing laughter rang out once more, drawing more than a few sets of onlooker’s eyes.  
“Not what you were expecting, eh?” the man’s eyes twinkled, “Perhaps your captain is trying to sell you off for cheap gold.”

The merchant raised his hands in mock surrender when Naadir fixed him with a scornful gaze.

“I jest, little one!” he grasped the reins of the camel, making placating motions with his free hand, “What is it we seek there, anyway. Not the company of another woman, I am sure I will be disappointed to find out?”

“I am after a mercenary,” she tried to cast out the image of the women she’d probably be seeing in a few minutes, this was not the time to be thinking of such things. This mission was important, allegedly an assignment directly from the God-Emperor Azir himself.

“A mercenary, eh? Bah, a gold coin buys you twelve of the same rats, all mercenaries are just bandits with business sense,” winding their way through the crowds, the pair passed a gap in the tall buildings. Beyond, from the vantage of the camel’s back, Naadir craned her neck, spying the sudden drop. When the City of the Sun had been reawakened, large rivers had gushed from the City, causing life to flourish in the desert once more.

“Out of a nosy man’s curiosity, which mercenary is it you’re after?”

“One called the Battle Mistress, the one rumoured to be God-Emperor’s descendant,” Naadir was almost flung from the back of the camel as Tulio abruptly yanked upon the camel’s reins, causing it to bray in annoyance, but halt none the less, “What’s wrong?”

“You are after Sivir?”

“I mean,” Naadir blinked, and bit her tongue in thought, “Isn’t it rude to address them by their real names, with their being royalty and all?”

“Oh, you should have said it was her!” a wide grin once again split the man’s face, “She left the city not half an hour past, we can probably still catch her.”

“But she was supposed to be waiting for me, I am meant to be guarding her Highness,”

“Oh, she is going to adore you, little one,” Tulio quickened his pace, bringing the Labeela sharply round and dragging the belligerent beast back the way they’d just come, “Just see how calling her your Highness goes, let alone treating her like royalty. I cannot wait to see her face.”

Naadir was more than a little relieved to not be heading to the brothel and rubbed the rounded hilt of her blade absentmindedly, thinking as she did so of the women that would’ve been there, their smooth, soft skin, just as smooth as this blade hilt.

She shook her head violently, focusing instead on what her captain had told her. Protect and warn the Battle Mistress, Sivir, for they had uncovered a plot to assassinate her. Naadir had been commanded, the words of the God-Emperor himself apparently, to lay down her life if needed, to defend Sivir. Hopefully it would not come to that.

~*~

Labeela trudged over the final ridge, huffing under the weight of carrying both the merchant and the soldier. The dunes were far less harsh around the city, some speculated thanks to the ascended emperor’s control over the desert’s sands. Either way, it made for far easier travel for poor, burdened camels.

Clambering off of the beasts back, Naadir glanced over her red scarf, wrapped across her neck and mouth, to glance down at the camp nestled in the dune’s shade. Much like how the scarf, made with the same dye as the bolt of silk from the market, kept the sand out of her mouth and the sun’s harsh fingers off her neck, the dune sheltered the camp. It was obviously a more permanent residence, with signs of white stone buildings, rounded and open to promote the circulation of cool air. A well, constructed of the same white stone, stood in the centre of the camp, a leather clad wooden cover currently sat atop the hole, perhaps to prevent sand from entering the well.

People bustled throughout this camp. After leaving the City of the Sun only fifteen minutes past, the difference in noise was almost uncomfortable to Naadir’s ears. The sound of people working, training, as well as the day-to-day bustle of people crafting and weaponsmithing, was a welcome sound.

Then she heard it, a woman’s yelp. Naadir glanced quickly to Tulio behind her, who had his foot stuck in the stirrup of the camel, jumping up and down to try and free himself whilst muttering some choice curse words. Turning back from the merchant, Naadir followed her instincts. She took off, running. Her sandaled feet kicked up gouts of sand behind her as she sprinted down the dune’s side, making sure to run at an angle to not trip. Her leather slatted skirt, whilst exposing her sun-kissed thighs on unfortunate occasions, meant that she could run without fear of the restraint trousers gave her. Somebody was in trouble, that was all the yell could mean.

As she barrelled into the camp proper, several of the people glanced quizzically. Quite a few were larger than her, muscled and littered with scars. More than a few had weapons on their hips and backs, ranging from simple cudgels to even a Demacian petricite glaive, being oiled and sharpened by a lithe man sat upon an upturned bucket. All these clearly veteran mercenaries seemed completely relaxed. Were they deaf? Had they not heard the shout?

There it was again, unmistakable, a woman crying out in pain. In the back of the camp rose a large, imposing tent. Coloured dark browns but trimmed with gold, it was flanked by two more grizzled men, each carrying a curved Targonian khopesh. The screaming was coming from behind them, inside the vast tent.

Ignoring their glances of confusion, Naadir wrenched free her shortsword while she ran, and barrelled into through the tent flaps, ducking under the slow-to-react grasping arms of the guards.

She stopped short when inside, eyes wide, battle cry caught in her throat.

Laid upon her back, sprawled across a throne-like mountain of satin and silk cushions, lay a gorgeous woman. She exuded the same aura that a lioness might give off when commanding her pride. Her body was muscled to almost an artform, tanned across every inch and riddled with scars. Indeed, Naadir could very much see every inch. Her gaze wandered, following the chiselled curves of the woman’s waist and hips. Drinking in the firm, honey hued breasts, softly rising and falling with the woman’s shallow breathing. Her areolas and nipples were as dark and enticing as the cascade of chestnut brown hair that fell across the woman’s gasping face. Her legs, slender yet clearly powerful, were wrapped in what seemed like a death grip around another woman’s head, which was pressed firmly between the mercenary’s thighs. The woman between the other’s legs was softly moaning in between deep breaths and slow, wet sounds. Her paler hands were grasping, practically clawing, at the other’s thighs and waist, leaving white nail and grip marks.

Naadir stood for a moment, ignored by the two women intertwined, the heavy yet sweet incense in the air making her both relaxed and yet inexplicably energised. Eventually, after this carried on for a couple more agonisingly long seconds, she cleared her throat. She felt two sensations, seemingly juxtaposing in their forms; her cheeks were burning with embarrassment, yet the warmth between Naadir’s legs was as wet as an oasis. This was worse than any brothel.

“Your… Highness?” Naadir softly uttered, her voice coming out in an odd squeak that made her want to run herself through with her own blade. It worked, though.

Before Naadir had time to react, there was a whirl of gold and green as something disc-like flew directly at her. Snapping out of her reverie, Naadir ducked beneath it with the dexterity that only someone who’d spend their life dodging the bolts and arrows of town guards could muster. The objected whistled overhead, audibly slicing through the tent flaps. Without even a second to recover, Naadir felt strong, yet somehow pleasantly scented, arms wrap around her waist, hoisting over head and slamming down into the cold earth beside the pillows.

Glancing up, head dazed, she saw the paler women, standing off to the right with wide eyes framed by locks of loose auburn hair. She was hastily wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her other arm covering her milky-white breasts in some failed attempt to preserve modesty. The far more pressing matter was the woman astride Naadir. The lioness did more than preen, it seemed. Dark hair curtaining around the woman’s cold gaze, Sivir breathed heavily, whether from exertion or the now likely quickly fading pleasure, Naadir could not tell.  
“Nobody is to call me that, I am no princess,” her jade green eyes, an oddity for a woman of her origins, were narrowed in suspicion. Naadir felt as though she was a choice cut of meat being sized up for dinner, “and you are clearly no ordinary guard, none of them move that fast. Trust me, they’ve tried.”

The mercenary moved her arm suddenly, causing her tanned, exposed breasts to dangle down, inches from Naadir’s face. Naadir was too transfixed by the pair of supple fruit to even react to Sivir’s sudden movement. She did, however, flinch when the slicing object suddenly returned. Her mouth gaped when Sivir caught it. Despite her current state, even she recognised it. The Chalicar. The crossblade once wielded by Setaka, a former empress of Shurima. Sivir was identical to the murals and paintings of the old Sun Queen, shockingly so. The blade was, as the name implied, shaped like a cross, with a rounded section on the end of each arm of the cross for cutting. The centre was hollow ring, so that one could grip it or, as Sivir has demonstrated, throw it.

Sivir followed the girl’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the first time you’ve taken your eyes off me since entering the room,” the mercenary laughed, mirthlessly, and slowly brought blade round until it was almost touching Naadir’s panting throat, “I should be even more insulted than I am already.”

Naadir gulped. As her gaze turned back to the woman above her, she could not help but notice the trickles of sweat curling down the woman’s body, following that defined collarbone, crawling slowly across Sivir’s swollen breast.

“I’ve.. I’ve been sent to-“

“To guard me, right?”

“I- Yes, Battle Mistress, the God-Emperor himself…” Naadir was silenced by a single finger of Sivir’s, placed against the young woman’s trembling lips.

“Ask Vaad for your payment,” Sivir suddenly exclaimed, clearly to the pale woman who had returned to her normal clothes and was now exiting out of the tent with a degree of haste.

The moment of silence was painfully long.

“What was it you called me?” Sivir quizzed, a smirk upon her rounded lips that Naadir found simultaneously alluring and terrifying.

“Battle Mistress, that is your title, afterall,”

“Yes… I do like the sound of that,” was it just Naadir’s imagination, or were those jade eyes copying what Naadir’s had done earlier, following down the contours of her body, marking out the best cuts.

“If you’re really up to the task of, ah, guarding me,” she clearly said it was an air of mocking amusement that Naadir found frustrating, “Then you don’t have to call me bullshit like Battle Mistress, or, Ascended forbid, your Highness.”

“But-“

“I am just a mercenary, girl,” Sivir seemed to pause, in thought, and Naadir felt the woman’s fingers softly trace across her sweat-slick neck beneath her red scarf, “But I would like it if in private, you would call me some of those things,”

Naadir’s throat went dry. It was about the only part of her that had the ability to be dry right now.

Slowly, Sivir pulled away the scarf, Naadir feeling the cloth unwind from where it was loosely wrapped. The mercenary wrapped it loosely around her own shoulders and neck, letting it dangle between her chest as she sat on Naadir’s stomach, the damp warmth between her legs unabashedly pressed against the thin material of the soldier’s shirt. With a genuine laugh, Sivir flung the scarf off to one side, watching it gently fall atop the pile of multicoloured silk cushions.

Sivir levered up into a kneeling position, Naadir’s arms were now free, but she felt no desire to move them. The incense in the room was still burning and seemed to dull her senses in some odd way. She could see it all now, the well-kept dark hair and the slowly dripping parting between Sivir’s legs.

“Call me mistress again, girl”

“Miss…”

Before Naadir had a chance to finish her sentence, her open mouth found hot, wet warmth thrust upon it. Her tongue rose up to meet the challenge, slowly working its way from top to bottom, digging into the body of Sivir. Naadir was being smothered by the muscled, battle scarred thighs of the mercenary, and found only moments to gasp for breath in between deliciously sucking and playing with this heavenly place. All she could smell was Sivir, the stench of her sweat and wetness, the audible gasps and moans rattling in Naadir’s head like it was an emptied jar. Reaching up, she grasped at Sivir’s waist and thighs much the same way the pale woman had, scrabbling like a sailor drowning at sea.

Powerful fingers wove into her tightly braided hair, pulling the braid apart with vigorous motions, gripping with a ferocious tightness that urged Naadir on like a prized mount. Above her, the descendant of gods thrust her hips rhythmically, in time with Naadir’s mouth and tongue, coating the girl’s face with her wetness. Beneath her, the soldier whimpered in a mixture of emotions beyond description. This was beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

The tug of her became violently sharp, and Sivir suddenly began breathing shallowly, her cheeks, chest and breasts aflush with intense colour. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, clawing at the girl’s scalp, thrusting herself further into the girl’s face, demanding more.

“Please your mistress, little thing,” Sivir gasped, one hand trembling out and grasping at the crossblade, slamming it into the ground inches from Naadir’s face, grasping it for support, “Make me cum.”

At that, Naadir’s grip tightened, nails digging sharply into the mercenary’s thighs. Her mouth suckled at the woman’s gates, the sweet invasion of her tongue giving reason for Sivir to cry out.

A sudden wild bucking, as if a desert storm had struck the Battle Mistress. She cried out, and her whole body rocked and trembled, convulsing for a moment before slowly settling down, reduced to a gentle twitching. Exhausted, Sivir rolled off of her prey, returning to lounge in the mountain of cushions, taking Naadir’s scarf and wrapping it around her hand.

For a moment, Naadir just lay there. She turned to one side, facing away from the Battle Mistress, and came face to face with herself. The golden reflection of her wet, bedraggled face in the polished flat of the Chalicar, flushed and exhausted, yet eyes she did not recognise. Hungry eyes. Clambering to her lips, she froze as she felt something wet trickling down her inner bare thigh.

“You…” said Sivir breathily, “Won’t get paid, not unless we make gold. All the men here are my guards also, so no matter what your precious puffed-up pigeon prince proclaims, the only people who can guard me are those in my warband.”

She jerked her head towards the tent flaps, still playing with Naadir’s crimson scarf.

“Take Sa’lor’s old building, he fell to a xer’sai last month,” she let a grin spread across her clearly tired face, “lets make sure that if we ever cross the Great Sai again, you know how to keep your mouth shut whilst you cum.”

~*~

It did not take long for Naadir to find the old building, nor long to find its bed. Which was useful. Sitting with her back to the cold, white wall, Naadir moved her hand tentatively between her damp stained thighs, under her leather slatted skirt. She didn’t have the patience to even remove her waterlogged underwear before she’d begun to play with herself. It took almost less time for her to be racked with explosive emotions, covering her mouth and squeezing her eyes, sharp whimpers of pleasure escaping from between her prison-like fingers as she finished.


End file.
